


What a little moonlight can do

by MToddWebster (RembrandtsWife)



Series: Your Shape in the Doorway [5]
Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Body Hair, Full Moon, Gender Ambiguous Character, Genderqueer, Moonlight, Nonbinary Character, Other, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:59:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26116072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/MToddWebster
Summary: The full moon keeps you and Andrew awake for a while, but that's all right.
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/You
Series: Your Shape in the Doorway [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839052
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	What a little moonlight can do

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic comes from a song which I'd bet a candy bar Andrew knows, ["What A Little Moonlight Can Do"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldwDvw99HHs), as performed by the glorious Billie Holiday. Thanks again to roosebolton for friendship, encouragement, and beta.

Usually you sleep well at Andy's place. It's quiet because it's in the country, and dark, too, although that took some getting used to. His bed is big and the mattress is just like you like it, there are more than enough pillows, and of course, you're usually sleeping with him. It's perfect.

So it surprises you when you wake up, rather suddenly, opening your eyes to the now-familiar room. Andrew, breathing slowly and softly beside you; your phone and your book on the bedside table; one pillow slipped onto the floor. 

After a quick trip to the bathroom, you pick up the stray pillow and settle back into bed. Only then does it occur to you why you woke up: The curtains didn't get closed before you went to sleep, and now the full moon is shining directly onto the bed.

You've never seen the moon like this, and it astonishes you: Intensely brilliant, yet not so bright you can't bear to look at it; so white that you think of liquid silver, yet the shadows on the surface are the most distinct you've ever seen them. It seems distant, yet intimate, a divine face gazing on you while you are unaware.

Or you were unaware. Now you're awake--awake because of that full moon gaze--and aware not only of the moon and its light but of the man sleeping beside you. 

He’s still asleep, apparently, sprawled on his back with the duvet pushed down to his hips. You let your eyes roam over him, greedily, something you try not to be too obvious about most of the time, especially around other people. His hair is fanned out around his head on the pillow like a peacock’s train; his high forehead is smoothed out, and his lashes, which still amaze you, rest on his cheekbones. His lips are parted, looking as soft as ever within their frame of beard, which looks visibly thicker than when you last looked at him closely. His hair and beard both grow quickly; he trims the beard every day when he has to look presentable.

He’s wearing nothing but an old white tanktop, so thin you can see the pink of his nipples through it and the dark of the surrounding hair. You know he’s wearing equally old boxers under the covers, and if you were just to pull them down a bit more, you could see--

A thin slit of deep green eyes, gleaming with the reflected light of the moon. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Smiling, he gets up without saying anything more and heads for the bathroom. On his way back, he stops, silhouetted against the window. “Wow.”

“Yeah. I think it’s what woke me up.”

Andrew stands there a moment, drinking in that intoxicating light. You drink in the sight of his broad shoulders, his big hands hanging open by his side, his lean legs. Then he turns back to the bed, and you say, “Take off your shirt?”

He pauses, one eyebrow lifting; his smile curls up at the corners, and he complies. “And the boxers?”

“Oh, not yet.” You pat the mattress, inviting him to lie down again. He does, lacing his hands behind his head. Oh, perfect. His lean arms tensed, his body bare down to the loose waistband of those plaid boxers, and his eyes on you, alert and anticipatory. Welcoming anything you might do.

“Looks like I have you right where I want you.” You draw the tip of your finger down the strong slope of his nose.

“Feels like I’m right where I want to be.” He makes just the tiniest motion with his hips, drawing your attention to the swell inside his boxers.

You’re not going to start there, though. Not when there’s all that lovely skin laid out for you to touch, practically glowing in the moonlight. Instead you straddle his thighs and lay your hands on his chest, bracing yourself as you lean down to kiss him. He kisses you back, enthusiastically--he’s a very good kisser, a delicious kisser--but you notice he doesn’t move his arms or try to touch you. Good. The two of you are on the same page.

First you just want to run your hands over his bare skin. Up his arms, past the puffs of dark hair in the hollows underneath, tracing the cut of his muscles, and down again, to draw your fingertips along his collarbone to the center. He quivers a little and licks his lips at the light touch, bites his lip when you spread out your hands and let your fingers brush over his nipples. You love the hair on his chest and the trail that leads down to his belly, the way it broadens again below his navel. You don’t touch his nipples directly right away; you just enjoy the sensation of fine warm skin and soft fuzzy curls. 

Your fingers follow those curls down to his navel and back up again a few times, raising gooseflesh. Andrew is trembling a little now, biting his lip. You lean down and kiss him, a bit aggressively, drawing his lower lip into your mouth to suck. His restraint slips a little and he pushes up against your weight.

He moans softly when you brush your palms over his nipples. If it weren’t so utterly quiet, you might not have heard him. His nipples stand up hard and hot in the sworls of hair you’ve rumpled, the flesh around them crinkled tight. You can’t resist--you have to bow your head and suck on them, one and then the other, keeping your body arched to tease him so he can’t thrust against you, only whine. 

“Jaysus,” he manages, when you back off. He’s visibly trembling, and it looks like his cock might just rip through the frail cotton of his shorts. He’s made a wet spot there.

For a moment you stretch out beside him to kiss him, cradling his face with one hand. His hand comes to cover yours, and you feel the nervy tension in him relax a little. He can be high strung at times; he feels so much, so deeply. You want to be brave enough to feel as much as he does.

Then you kneel up and carefully peel down his boxers, pulling them all the way off when he lifts his hips for you. He draws his legs together as you move to straddle his thighs, facing him and taking his cock in both your hands. 

It’s big, yes, and hot and shivering like a thing with a mind of its own in your grip, the head glistening, the foreskin slipped back already. You look at it and then at Andrew’s face. He’s not biting his lip any more--he’s past that; his mouth is soft and open, his eyes nearly closed. With the moonlight on his face, you could almost believe that his eyes shine in the dark like an animal’s. You watch his face, the play of pleasure across the features you love so much, as you stroke him down and up, until your own hunger overcomes you and you bend to take his cock in your mouth.

He moans louder now as you take him in. There’s no point in trying to get all of it in your mouth, you never will, but you’re familiar with his body after this long. You keep one hand around the base of his cock and stroke him with the other--chest, belly, hip, thigh--as you finesse the head with lips and tongue. There’s something smoky about the taste and smell of him, like wood fires and juniper; you relish it every time you’re close to him, more so when the two of you are like this.

When you suddenly back off, Andy’s whole body lifts and twists, and he swears under his breath. He doesn’t hold back during sex, he lets everything flow out; you’ve never been with another man so open, and that’s why you don’t tease him, you don’t edge him and try to make him break down and beg, there’s no need--you give him your mouth again until he cries out and you let him spurt all over your chest.

You shift over to sit beside him, watching his breathing slow down, smelling his come on your skin. After a little while, his lips curl up in a slow, sleepy smile. 

“I’ve made a mess, there,” he murmurs. 

“Don’t worry about it.” You wipe up with a handful of tissues before stretching out beside him again. He rolls over to nuzzle at your cheek, your throat.

“You smell like me.”

“I like it, it’s a good smell.” 

The moon has moved enough in the sky that it’s not flooding the whole bed any more, but the room is still pretty bright. Andrew’s hand slides across your bare stomach, up to your breastbone, back down and further.

“All this fucking moonlight’s making it hard to get back to sleep,” he says into your ear. Your nipples tighten a little at the friction of his beard.

“Hard?” Sometimes his refractory period amazes you.

“Difficult.” He kisses your shoulder. “Fuckin’ hard.” 

You shiver as his fingers move. “Amazing what a little moonlight can do….”


End file.
